When the sun became sick

I borrowed the wings of Icarus,

I wanted to feed it nectar

so It could return to its glory,

I wanted it to burn

so the sunflowers would not be sad, 

so the skies would not have had,

that pitch-grey,



of gloom over the land, 



 the sun would not have healed

for a next forty two years,

fifteen thousand, 

three hundred 

and thirty nights,

the birds would not sing,

the ants would not dance

and even I, 

a water nymph

lived in a grey-casted trance. 

I should have warned the sun,

but it would not have left,

because the sun casted it’s pride, 

and still shun bright for those who 

needed it,

but in holding spears of fear to his neck


they killed the sun


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